style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Pleased to meet you both,’ said Gaille.
They glanced up from their map, nodded politely. Ibrahim smiled distractedly, glanced at his watch. ‘Just one more to come. You know Augustin Pascal?’
Elena snorted. ‘Only by reputation.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Ibrahim seriously. ‘He’s a fine underwater archaeologist.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ said Elena.
‘Oh.’
It was a few more minutes before an engine roared at the mouth of the site. ‘Ah!’ said Ibrahim. ‘Here he is.’
A thirty-something man cruised up the approach on a gleaming black and chrome chopper, wending potholes, bare-headed, allowing his long dark hair to flow free. He was wearing mirror shades, two days’ worth of stubble, a leather jacket, jeans, calf-high black biker boots. He rode the chopper up onto its stands, stepped off, fetched a cigarette and a brass Zippo from his shirt pocket.
‘You’re late,’ said Ibrahim.
‘Desolé,’ he grunted, shielding the flame. ‘Something came up.’
Mansoor asked wryly: ‘Sophia, I suppose?’
Augustin grinned wolfishly. ‘You know I’d never take advantage of my students like that.’
Elena clucked her tongue and muttered a Greek obscenity beneath her breath. Augustin grinned and turned to her, spreading his hands. ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘You see something you like, perhaps?’
‘How could I?’ retorted Elena. ‘You’re standing in the way.’
Mansoor laughed and slapped Augustin on the shoulder. But Augustin himself looked unruffled. He gazed Elena up and down, then gave her a grin of frank approval, perhaps even of intent, for she was a striking-looking woman, Elena, and anger added a certain something to her colouring. Gaille winced and took half a step back, waiting for the inevitable eruption, but Ibrahim stepped between them just in time.
‘Well,’ he said, with nervous jauntiness. ‘Let’s start, shall we?’
The ancient spiral steps looked precarious. Gaille descended warily. But they all reached the bottom without alarm and gathered in the rotunda. The corner of a black and white pebble mosaic showed beneath the rubble. Gaille pointed it out in a murmur to Elena.
‘Ptolemaic,’ declared Elena loudly, going down on her haunches to brush away the dust. ‘Two fifty BC, give or take.’
Augustin pointed to the sculpted walls. ‘Those are Roman,’ he said.
‘Are you suggesting I can’t tell a Macedonian mosaic when I see one?’
‘I’m suggesting that the carvings are Roman.’
Ibrahim held up his palms. ‘How about this?’ he suggested. ‘It started as a private tomb for some wealthy Macedonian. Then some Romans discovered it three hundred years later and turned it into a necropolis.’
‘That would explain the staircase,’ admitted Elena grudgingly. ‘Macedonians didn’t usually build in spirals. Straight lines or squares.’
‘And they’d have needed to widen the shaft when they expanded it into a necropolis,’ agreed Augustin. ‘For light and ventilation, and to lower corpses, and to take out quarried stone. They used to sell it to builders, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Elena scathingly. ‘I did know, thank you.’
Gaille was barely listening. She was staring dizzily up at the circle of sky high above her head. Christ, but she was out of her depth. An emergency excavation offered no second chances. Within the next two weeks, the mosaic and all these exquisite carvings and everything else in this place would need to be photographed. After that the place would probably be sealed for ever. Artefacts like these deserved a real professional, someone with an eye for the work, experience, sophisticated equipment, lighting. She plucked anxiously at Elena’s sleeve, but Elena obviously realised what she wanted to discuss and brushed her off, following Mohammed down the steps into the forecourt of the Macedonian tomb, the dull matt yellow of the limestone shown up by the shining white marble blocks of the façade, and the four engaged marble ionic columns and the marble entablature running across their top. The party paused for a few moments to admire, then pressed on through the half-open bronze door into the tomb’s antechamber.
‘Look!’ said Mansoor, shining his torch at the side walls. They all went closer to inspect them. There was paint on the plaster, though terribly faded. It had been common practice in antiquity for important scenes from the dead person’s life to be painted in or around their tombs. ‘You can photograph these?’ asked Mansoor.
‘I’m not sure how well they’ll come out,’ said Gaille wretchedly.
‘You must wash them first,’ said Augustin. ‘Lots and lots of water. The pigment may look dead now. But give them some water and they will spring back to life like beautiful flowers. Trust me.’
‘Not too much water,’ warned Mansoor. ‘And don’t set up your lights too close. The heat will crack the plaster.’
Gaille looked round desperately at Elena, who was studiously refusing to meet her eye. Instead she shone her torch at the inscription above the portal into the main chamber. ‘“Akylos of the thirty three,”’ said Augustin, translating from the Ancient Greek. The light vanished from the inscription at that moment, as Elena fumbled and dropped her torch, cursing so violently that Gaille glanced at her in surprise.
Ibrahim turned his own torch on the inscription instead, allowing Augustin to start his translation from the beginning. ‘“Akylos of the thirty three,”’ he read out. ‘“To be the best and to be honoured above the rest.”’
‘It’s Homer,’ murmured Gaille. Everyone turned to look at her in surprise. She felt her cheeks burn. ‘It’s from The Iliad,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ nodded Augustin. ‘About a man called Glaucus, I believe.’
‘Actually, it comes up twice,’ said Gaille timidly. ‘Once about Glaucus and once about Achilles.’
‘Achilles, Akylos,’ nodded Ibrahim. ‘He evidently thought a great deal of himself.’ He was still staring up at the inscription when he followed Mohammed into the main chamber, so that he tripped over the low step and went sprawling onto his hands and knees. Everybody laughed as he picked himself up and brushed himself down with the self-deprecating face of the accident-prone.
Augustin went to the shield pinned to the wall. ‘The shield of a hypastist,’ he said. ‘A shield-bearer,’ he explained, when Ibrahim frowned. ‘Alexander’s special forces. The greatest unit of fighting men in the most successful army in the history of the world. Maybe he wasn’t being so boastful after all.’
II
Morning sunlight fell upon Knox’s cheek as he lay on Augustin’s couch and tried to catch up on sleep. He groaned and showed it his back, but it was no good. The day was already too sticky. He rose
